Things Lost
by JasperK
Summary: What does one do when everything turns against one? Vash alone with his thoughts.


_A/N: I have been here on FF for a YEAR! Wow. Never thought I'd be here that long. Never mind me while I am impressed at myself. _(:

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Spoilers (&amp; they are bad ones): Trigun Maximum 14

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**Things Lost**

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It hurt. Like a bloom of pain in the chest, that when at its peak, flared through his whole body. The logical thing was not to think about it. Yet, in the midst of it all, he could not not think about it. It was the awful "what if" game he played with himself in the darkest times. What if he had done this and not that? What if he had acted sooner? What if he had not tried to be clever about the outcome?

He stared at the ceiling where the fan was not moving. He had tried to turn it on earlier, but it had not worked. A query to the landlord had enlightened him to the fact that it hadn't worked in two years, sorry. Kind of like his life, really. When had that ever worked? No. There were good days and bad days, and this was just a particularly bad day. Some sleep would put the bad into a better perspective in the morning. It would be a bad day that he had survived, more than that he could not find anything good in it.

He felt a warm itchy tear trail down his cheek. Tears were good, they helped. He hadn't had a good cry in months. He smiled. There, that was a positive thought. His smile turned to a grimace as he turned on his side and hugged his pillow to himself. At least he could hug something if there was no one to hug him. He was too tired to work up the strength for a self pitying sob. He just lay there with his eyes closed and tears slipping down his face into the material. It still _hurt_.

Why did he get to live? He had as much opportunity to die as everyone else, but he had not. It was as if he still had some purpose in this world. But what purpose did he have now that Knives was gone? Surely that had been the reason he had lived, to counter his brother? Now? It had been months and he still felt odd about Knives. He felt guilty about being relieved that he was no longer causing troubles for the world. It was such a weight off his mind. Yet now, he faced a peculiar purposelessness of existence. He had always reacted before. Now, now that he was free to make his own way, he did not know what to do. That hurt, in a different way.

He turned over roughly, tugging the blankets with him. He was tired of hurting. Oh, he could find many causes to occupy his time and every one of them worthy. Yet, they didn't call to his heart as the plight of the world had called in his wandering years. He felt as though the world had poured him out in its hour of need, then had tossed him aside. They had not forgotten him that would be too much to hope for; he had seen the Wanted posters up. They even had one for Knives, which made him sad. It hurt seeing his brother's face like that, perhaps if he had done something different, he would be around to at least be on the run from bounty hunters. He grinned. Knives would be beyond aggravated at that. It would have made him very creative in trap laying though. Vash sighed. He could just see Knives launching a small war against anyone who dared attempt his capture. As awful as that thought was, it was better than the empty nothingness that now existed. All the pain and fear and anxiety were gone, replaced by a dead numbness. He blinked surprised; his face was wet, the pillow was wet, but he was no longer crying. He was too empty to cry.

He tried praying. But deep down he felt he deserved everything he got. The empty aching years of loneliness and every scar he bore physically and mentally. He was surprised he was still alive after the mess he had made, not only of his own life but countless others. Asking God for anything just felt wrong, but it hurt so much he had to say something. He asked for blessings on those he had encountered that day, including the gang he had failed to defeat. Perhaps they would mend their ways, or make some mistake that would allow the Feds to capture them. He wearily added his thanks for his survival, as much as a burden it was, life was a blessing.

He closed his eyes but sleep would not come. He pummeled his pillow into a more comfortable shape and pulled his blankets over him. The moonlight through the slatted blind made pale stripes across the far wall. He let out a long sigh and critically considered the thing that had utterly tipped him over into his melancholy. He had destroyed his prosthetic arm, again. He could have it replaced, but right now he was beyond broke and working with one arm would mean fewer people would hire him. Rationally, it was just a prosthetic and money could replace it. He would simply have to work until he had the money, or at least enough to get a message to Seeds. No, with Knives out of the picture he could not bother them, he had lived too long on their charity. He winced. When had he last been so broke? He missed the old prosthetic; it was a fine piece of machinery. It had been far too expensive for his erratic income, but it was a necessity he had depended on time and again. He lay on his back and splayed the fingers of his right hand out above his head. Work to earn enough to replace his prosthetic was a small purpose, and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. However, it would do for now. It was a step, once again, towards picking himself out of the dirt, dusting himself off and trying to make some sort of difference in this dry indifferent world.

He wriggled around again until he found a more comfortable spot to lie. Now, if only he could get to sleep so he could start tomorrow's job hunt refreshed. That would be good.


End file.
